


A mist shaped hole in your heart

by Taniushka12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Manipulation, Guilt, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, allusions to asphyxiation and drowning, it is comfort but its from peter...so...yeah, mentions of martin's mom, or at least pre lonely!martin but close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-17 12:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17560055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taniushka12/pseuds/Taniushka12
Summary: Sometimes the remedy of pain was to be alone.Sometimes the answer was plain and simple loneliness.Sometimes all you need to do was to drown to breath again.





	A mist shaped hole in your heart

 They said sharing your secrets relieved the mind. Talking about what was bothering you and all that stuff. Martin knew that, he himself has said it a lot in the past, like the tea offering-fortune cookie shaped man he was, quite easily avoiding to do exactly what his advice dictated. To be fair his secrets couldn't possibly came out to the light, his entire world would crumble if they did! That was what he had thought at least, some time ago. Now he didn't know which was a more laughable idea, the fact that he thought his secrets were worth the problems or that he would keep them like that in what it essentially was the altar of a knowledge seeker god.

 And yet there he was, working here and working there and feeling, among other things, how his secrets got stuck on his throat and slowly choked the air of him when he thought about them. Dragged him down, drowned him like the cold water under his feet. Which is why he generally didn't do it in the first place, being such an integral part of his being that they could be easily ignored and pushed aside, but there was something about the cold and salty sea that made them float into the surface with every turn. And maybe it was because of that that he accepted, when Peter asked to have a word with him, when he invited him to his private cabin on The Tundra on a rather foggy day.

 He didn't know what it was, but he blamed it on the wine (on a too-nice-looking glass, only one) and the knife that digged deep within his soul, that when the man asked what was wrong, what was worrying him, what heaved him, like the drowning man he was, he couldn't help but answer.

 —I never... I never really finished high school, y'know? I couldn't. My mom, she... —It was silly, actually, if he thought about that. Peter Lukas wasn't from The Eye, he didn't have any supernatural ways to _know him_  and yet there he was, spilling from the lesser secrets (he already said that one already, but it _was_  the root of the problem, wasn't it? The main reason why he was caught in that mess of a life) and feeling an ache when he finished. He looked up to Peter, and saw him staring at the sea behind the porthole window with a thoughtful expression. For a second he feared that he wasn't listening, when his dark eyes bored into his.

 —I believe I was told of that already. I'm sorry about your mom. —His voice didn't show any sadness, not the tiniest hint of condolence, but neither it or his eyes shown that sadistic glimmer he saw on Elias the last time his past was brought to light. They didn't show anything at all, and it was... oddly comforting. He kept talking, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to.

~~or rather, he needed it, but from a very very different way~~

 —I love Jon. —He said, ultimately, feeling his cheek hotter for a second before the ache of before came back with force. It wasn't a secret, really, he was sure a lot of people knew by now already, but it was the first time he actually said it out loud. And as soon as he said the words he could hear how they become static, how his heart was pulled apart with a knife made of ice.

 —So I've heard. —It startled him a bit his sudden voice, looking up to his not so impassive eyes, forcefully ignoring the fact that he forgot for a moment of his presence. He frowned a bit, blood dripping down an ice stalactites to a waiting hand, ready to ask what exactly did that mean when Peter asked—. Why?

 —W... What do you mean _why_?

 A smile that didn't look neither warm nor cold, yet managed to feel like both, painted his mouth.

 —Why?

 —B-because he's smart, he's, he's very hardworking, he cares about people, sometimes, and... And I don't have to answer that, really. —He didn't, he easily could not answer, it wasn't like...

 —Well, Martin... —He got up, putting his chair closer to him as the smile on his lips never left him—. It seems to me that you're a man of many secrets! And people always say that sharing your secrets relieves the pain. It's not surprising that you fell for something that could make you tell your deepest secrets with ease. Someone that could very easily rip the truth out of your mouth.

 —It doesn't- He doesn't- He doesn't do that!

 —Well, certainly not now.

 Cold. A Cold cold body on a hospital bed with tubes and needles everywhere, strategically closed eyes to defer from the fact that he's not quite alive and that nobody knows if he'll Ever be. He bit his lip, a dreadful mix of sorrow and anger choking at his throat and making him tremble. And it hurts, so bad.

 —Please... stop...

 Peter lifted his hands mimicking defeat, seemingly letting the issue drop. At least for a while.

 —But just as the Beholding makes it easier, I believe giving your pain to the void is rather rewarding.

  _How?_  he wanted to ask. _How could anything of this situation be rewarding?_  all he could feel was a gaping hole on his heart every time he thought about it. Thought about Jon, laying there looking as lifeless as he knew both Sasha and Tim were, thought about Basira and Melanie trapped in the Institute, apathy and rage slowly winning over them and making them unapproachable, thought about his mom...

 Thought about everyone he knew, really.

  ~~Poison~~

 Worth a shot. Maybe.

 —My mom hates me.

 —Oh?

 He already felt tired, drained, his heart being strangled by a strong hand and leaking the last of his remaining energy. He couldn't stop. Didn't want to, either, part of him thought, knowing very well which was the next part and wanting to take it out of his chest.

 —I did everything for her. I dropped out of school, got this job, was always for her when I could, wrote all this letters so she wouldn't feel alone... But I just, I look too much like my dad, apparently, and she _hates me._

 Peter didn't say anything, and the faint sound of static filled the air around him as he finally started to sob.

 —And y'know what the saddest part is? —His voice wavered, his breath coming too quick, feeling every bit of disgusting shame he felt when he thought about it, recoiling a bit towards the static filled air between them—Even before I knew that... Before _Elias_  told me that... I always had this thought, of how **easier**  would it be if she would just _stop_. I would stop having to beg for money and she would stop feeling bad, she would stop feeling pain, she just needed to...

 A few tears dropped down his cheek to his chin, static softly mixing with his sniffles.

 —I don't even know what I'd do if she died, I don't- I hate thinking about it... — ** _It Hurts_** —. But... it would be so much easier... God, what does that make me?

 —Oh, Martin... —He felt his hand touch his arm, firmly shifting to his shoulders with a sigh—. You're a good man... —He rubbed his thumb on the skin of his neck, sending icy shivers down Martin's spine and making him choke on his tears—. You don't deserve the pain, you don't deserve to be dragged down by your ties with her, with them, you deserve to be left alone.

  _You deserve to be alone_ , was the very clear underlined message, and Martin wanted to laugh for a second. Wasn't that what he was doing already? Pulling him away from the rest, always moving, cutting off his ties and what have you? He didn't _want_  to be alone, and yet every time he thought about the people he knew, every time he was with them he could feel the ties that bound them choking at his neck and slowly tearing him apart.

 But he didn't feel it slow now, no, he felt it raw, an opened gaping wound dripping all over the floor, and he was tired, so tired.

 And then when he felt that firm hand rest on his chest, nothing. Static.

 He gasped, wet, as he felt his cold fingers through the thin layer of cloth, and he felt a foggy numbness where before there was pain. He then cried harder as Peter's arms closed around him, his hands holding him by his back, his sides and his hair, each place he touched filled with this icy sensation, spreading from his skin to deep within his soul. The longer he cried and the longer he touched him he could feel his thoughts slipping away, the ache on his heart growing colder for each shaky intake of breath, cold tears running down his face and onto Peter's coat as he pulled him as closer as humanly possible. Despite his coldness, the only source of warm he could think of in that moment.

 As the tears begin to slow down he realized that he couldn't quite place why he was crying in the first place. He could remember the scene before, of course, secrets and all, but he couldn't quite recall the faces of the people who made him cry. A static, a fog, forming shapes inside his memory. It was scary, but the pain subsided with every brush on his fingers and he didn't want him to stop. He felt foggy inside and out, and when that hand lifted his chin he just looked up, to his eyes.

 Stone cold eyes piercing through his soul, touching everywhere the cold fog reached. He wasn't the Archivist, able to pull the truth out of his mouth with a question, or the Watcher, able to see every secret from his pathetic life, but he knew Peter could still feel it perfectly, how much everything, and everyone, hurt all the damn time. How much he ached...

 For What?

 —You don't deserve the torture that it's other people. All you need is a bit of loneliness—. He pronounced the last word like it was the freshest fruit he ever tasted, and that now lay in front of Martin as an offering. With static on his mind and cold on his skin, he could only close his eyes when Peter captured his lips on his own, drying the path of frozen tears with his rough hands.

 Martin moaned, as the man devoured the agony straight from his mouth, ripping it apart from his heart and leaving fog instead. He could feel the fog inside, filling his lungs, his mind, and mending the threads of what was left of his heart.  Peter smiled against his lips as his hands pulled him closer, and he felt like he was drowning in the middle of the sea. He could not remember his dead friends nor his suffering acquaintances, he could not remember his mom. He could not remember Jon.

 He was utterly and completely alone, he was the loneliest man in the entire world. And he finally felt no pain.

 

 And it felt so comforting.

 

 And it felt so good.

 

 And he nearly felt... free.

 

 He quickly recoiled and nearly fell down from his chair, and Peter looked at him with actual surprise as he took a few heavy breaths, with a hand on the other's chest. He felt dizzy, he felt out of air and not in the way a kiss was supposed to make you feel. A kiss... Oh god what did he do...

 After his initial surprise Peter just stared at him choking on his own breath, making no move to get closer or pull away, until the hand on his chest ultimately did the latter. Martin could swear he saw something on his eyes, be it pity or a frown, but whatever it was only lasted for a fraction of a second before he found himself saying, when he found his voice again.

 —Please, leave? — _Leave me alone_  he didn't say, didn't want to think about. It didn't register to him where exactly they were until Peter looked around with a raised eyebrow, to his own quarters—. I-I mean I can't make you leave, it's your room, of course. Can I...? May I...? Um...

 He heard him chuckle, lightly, amused.

 —You can leave now, if you wish. —Relief twisted among other things inside of him, but before he could get up he felt his hand on his cheek again, now warm fingers against his own cold, cold skin—. Although, Martin... When you're finally ready -and, believe me, I know you'll be- just speak up.

 He was shivering when he got to his quarters, feeling the cold under his skin and that weird fog still tingling in every pore of his body. That pleasant numbness still clouded his thoughts, like a heavy wet blanket, and for a second he touched his chest to remind himself that he was breathing, that his heart was still beating. It was slow. It was concerningly slow and his skin was nearly freezing, but what most worried him was the fact that, despite it all, he felt calm. He laid his head on the pillow, acutely aware of the fact that in that moment he felt better than he felt in weeks, months, even. And when he eventually closed his eyes he could feel nothing but static, white noise swelling deep into his mind, pushing everything aside.

 That night he dreamt that he was floating in the middle of the ocean, far, far away from any semblance of humanity. And as the cold swept to his bones and the salt corrode the inside of his lungs, seeing the weak remain of light in the water above, he finally felt peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> I thought about this in the twenty blocks walk from my granny's to my house, then wrote it down in three days lmao. And before anyone says anything, believe me, having to take care of someone sick for a prolonged span of time kinda does a number on you, and he spent _years_
> 
> Hope you liked it !!


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